You

9

I round the corner and see Benji yanking on the door to the shop and I caught him too, even better. I smile broad. I own this fuck. “There he is,” I call. “The Home Soda man!”

“Mr. Herzog, it is a true honor,” he coos, that fucking kiss-ass in a Brooks Brothers blazer and for what?

“Sorry I’m late,” I say and I fake a fumble for the keys. Food critics who are part owners of café-book hybrid places are, by nature, a clumsy folk. “But it’s worth the wait. I promise.”

I unlock the door and we’re in and Benji is too nervous to notice that I lock the door behind me.

“This place is a gem,” he marvels. “They serve coffee here?”

“Now and then,” I say and I could work for New York Magazine’s bullshit website. I watch Mad Men and know about Jay Z and overpriced ramen. “For now though, would water do?”

“Excellent, Nathan.”

Excellent, Nathan. So while Benji prattles nervously about how much he loves books and bookstores and people who read books I am pouring a baggie of crushed Xanax into a glass of water. He’ll gulp. He’s nervous. He takes the water. He thanks me. He can’t even say thank you without sounding like a phony. I let him go on and say I’ve just got to tend to something behind the counter and he is all apologies and that’s perfect, Nathan and I cleared my calendar for this and I’m moving papers around and listening to the Xanax overtake him. Did I put enough in? He’s woozy and he wants to sit down.

He almost wobbles toward the counter. “Do you mind? Is there somewhere I could sit a minute?”

Punching him is gratuitous. But then, he did use the word excellent a dozen times in twenty fucking minutes. He’s out cold and on the ground and I walk into the main floor and lift his feet. Here he goes, down the stairs. He doesn’t wake up while I drag him into the cage and I lock him in there and smile. Excellent.

His Brooks Brothers blazer provides a wealth of goods. There’s his drug purse, packets of heroin or coke or Ritalin or whatever the kids are doing these days and a plastic key card (I leave that). There’s his wallet (I take that). And then there’s the grand prize that is his phone (I don’t have to tell you that I take that). Benji is as fearless as you¸ Beck, and within seconds I have access to his Twitter, his e-mail, and the Home Soda blog on the website. Naturally, his phone is full of pictures of the Monica performance artist person. She is nauseating, splayed, always posing. I pick a “sexy” one and tweet it from Benji’s account. Two words accompany the photograph:

#Beautifulovely #Yes

You are meant to interpret this as Benji’s way of calling you

#Inadequate #No

And you do. Oh, Beck, it hurts to see you cry, feel so rejected. Don’t you know how much I’d like to go hug you and prop you against that green pillow and fill you with love and mass-produced club soda? I want all that. But I can’t intervene. You need your space to detach from this asshole and I wait for your sadness to turn into anger. And then it does and you write like a snake, you slither:

I am not your fucking plaything, Benji. I am not a no-hearted phony piece of shit performance artist cum Dumpster. I am a human being. A real human being, just like the song, and you do not blow me off. Do you hear me? This is not how my life goes. Treat me like you treat your soda. Or you know what? Better yet, fuck your soda. Give that a shot. Stick it right in there into that glass bottle and fuck your soda because that’s what you love. You don’t love me. You don’t love anyone.

Your e-mails are true and beautiful. But there’s a problem. They all get stored in drafts. You don’t have it in you to send them. You’re still holding on to this townie fantasy that this shaggy-haired camping tourist will throw away his ideals for you. You want that. There is not a lot I can do. So I stand by. I read your e-mails.

Chana is right: Honestly, Beck. It would be nice if Benji loved you, but he doesn’t. So it’s not surprising when he bails on you and cheats on you and pulls that weird Daddy shit. You know? This will sound weird, but I am happy for you. Let this end already.

Lynn chimes in: I think there are no good guys in New York. It’s not like I’m in some rush to get married, I love it at the UN. And I would rather go work in Prague than get married, but honestly, I don’t think there are good men here. They’re all Benjis.

Chana writes back: Get off eHarmony, Lynn. Seriously.

I am optimistic until you have a separate private e-mail exchange with this Peach person. You’re different with her.

You: I sound like such a girl, but I haven’t heard from Benji. He kind of bailed on me. He’s probably just busy but what if . . .

Peach: What if you got so busy writing something awesome that you forgot about him. It’s like in yoga when you put all your energy into one sacred place: you.

You: You are soooo right. Thank you, wise one!

But it doesn’t matter what your friends think. You’re still drafting e-mails to him. And now you want to know where he is and when you’re going to see him. You want him. Still. You need my help and I forge an entry in Benji’s Home Soda blog:

Spontaneous trek to the ACK. New inspiration, new flavors with the help of a lovely companion.

He is the kind of asshole who would refer to Nantucket by its airport code, ACK, and of course he didn’t invite you. He didn’t tell you he was going. He just left. He’s no good. And he used the word lovely and you’re supposed to think he’s with Monica and write him off once and for all. Still, you send the link to Peach, and you are sad, not mad. She writes back:

Sweetie, he’s an entrepreneur. And he’s probably referring to Rascal, his family’s Lab. Don’t jump . . . to conclusions!

We are at an impasse. None of this has worked. You forgive this fucker who tweets a filtered photo of the come-fuck-me soda cunt. There were no cases of gratis Home Soda at your reading, Beck, but you still want him and I still have to fix this. I send you an e-mail from Benji:

Long story. Be well, kid.

You open the e-mail seconds after I send it. You don’t forward it to your friends and you don’t draft another violent fuck-you e-mail. Now you are still and I am not surprised when my phone alerts me that I have a new e-mail an hour later. It’s you:

Thursday instead?

I did it. Finally. I have only one word for you:

Yes.

WHEN the little pansy wakes up, I don’t know how much time has passed but he’s yawning like it’s been a century. He doesn’t seem to get it at first and he makes awkward small talk about the cage—is this mahogany?—and then he talks about parrots. Finally, it dawns on him that there are bars separating us. He reaches for the door and for the second time today, I watch this prick yank a door handle.

“You don’t need to do that,” I say. I try to keep him calm. I am kind.

“Let me out,” he snaps. “Now.”

“Benji,” I say. “You need to settle down.”

He looks at me. He is puzzled. Candace’s brother was also puzzled. The assholes are always puzzled when the order of the universe is restored, when they are held accountable for their cowardly, pretentious, loveless ways.